


The Old Man in the Corner

by JeanSchramme



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, IDK I thought this guy looked awesome from the trailers, Imperial Navy, Star Wars Resistance, TIE Pilot - Freeform, and I am the proverbial slut for ex-Imperial vets, so I figured why not do some writing for him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-14 05:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16033646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanSchramme/pseuds/JeanSchramme
Summary: In a bar on an Outer Rim crossroads, a veteran of the Imperial Navy contemplates his future. My take on one of the characters from the upcoming Star Wars: Resistance, and a look at what happened to those who fought for the losing side in the Galactic Civil War.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a dirty world, dusty, like every other Outer Rim trash heap I’ve wound up stuck on. Most of ‘em aren’t even desert worlds, or arid or whatever but they all have the same features. Same major city that hosts  more than its fair share of the local population; same cantina that every drifter, bounty hunter, freelance pilot, and hard-luck story type frequents in search of a big break; same corrupt local authorities; same source of trouble for me.

I could--- _ should _ \---get ‘em lasered off. The Imperial insignia, one tattooed on each shoulder, the cog that the galaxy learned to love or fear depending which side of the fence you fell on. But that’d be betraying the pilots who flew on my wing back in the days when our engines’ scream made you run for cover rather than appreciate ancient history.

Of course the port administrator here on Junction had his kid killed by stormtroopers or disappeared by an ISB team or snatched up by one of those Inquisitor freaks in the early days, before even  _ I  _ had earned my pilot’s wings. Doesn’t matter, of course, cause it’s reason enough for them to ground my ship with bullshit fees I gotta work up the scratch to pay.

I have the creds, of course. Last mission was a convoy escort for Whoever-The-Hutt, making sure his shipment of Klatooinian paddy frogs didn’t get jumped along the Hydian Way, and the slug paid well for safe delivery of their snacks. But if I’m gonna pay this cretin’s guilt charges it’ll drain my accounts dry, and I won’t be able to afford the fuel to get my ship off this rock.

But there’s a way out. Just gotta be able to convince them to pay up front.

A figure appears in the doorway, scans the crowd, locks onto me in nothing flat. Not surprising; camo, social or otherwise, ain’t my style. And even in the ragbag of outfits in this cantina, old TIE pilot gear stands out.

I just wait. Either the tats and torn-up rig will turn ‘em off, or they’ll push forward.

They go for the latter, moving through the crowd with purpose and settling down in front of me. It’s a Tiss’shar, one of those massive reptoids you can find lurking in any corporate office in the galaxy. Sneaky fuckers, and bad news for me cause you bet they’ll like the idea of paying up front as much as an ewok wants to measure a rancor’s mouth with their head.

“You are Griff Halloran,” hisses the reptoid, settling down across from me. It’s not a question, and judging by the look he gives the battered helmet resting on the table in front of me, he already knows the answer.

“Yup.”

“You are...older than I was led to expect.”

What the fuck did he expect? Navy vets aren’t exactly getting any younger; sure my rig ain’t what it used to be, sure the tats are unorthodox, but I’m every inch the pilot I was back when I was  _ Captain  _ Halloran rather than just Griff.

My irritation must’ve been obvious, cause the lizard raises his hands. “No disrespect intended, of course. May I join you for you a drink?”

I motion to the menu embedded in the table. “Go for it. But let’s talk business while you wait. You said you had work for me?”

The Tiss’shar makes a hissing noise, shaking his head. “No. But I represent someone who does. Captain Imanuel Doza. He is in charge of a refuelling station in the Outer Rim, and is looking to staff a squadron for base defense.”

Static posting getting bored out of my skull in the middle of nowhere? “Pass.”

“Wait, please.” The lizard leans in closer, and I can feel my skin crawl. I still have no idea how the rebels were so touchy-feely with creeps like this. I’ve gotten used to aliens more, working on the fringe, but I know I’ll never be entirely comfortable with him. “The station is on the border of territory controlled by the First Order.”

Oh. Now  _ that  _ changes things.

I try to cover for it by taking a slow sip of my drink, doing my best to hide the sudden flash of anger that those wannabe fucks always bring to my face. “And why would  _ that _ make a difference for me?”

“We understand you have had previous...difficulties with them.” A serving droid trundles over and drops off a small, fizzy drink I don’t recognize. The alien leans closer. “We understand you rejected an offer of employment.”

I can feel a vein pulsing in my temple. This guy is well-informed, too much so, but he’s not wrong. I still remember the day they made their approach, one officer and two troopers, both so much like the guys I’d flown for and with and still  _ weird _ . Something about the armor design, the uniform, it was uncanny valley for an old sailor like me. And the officer had been a  _ kid _ , claiming to hold Captain’s rank when he looked like he should’ve been fresh out of the Academy.

I’d heard about the First Order. All us vets had, and some had even gone rocketing out to the Unknown Regions to sign on. But there was just enough weirdness, like seeing visions of our old Empire through a funhouse mirror, that no small amount of us held off. If it had been in the early days, with vets like Grand Admiral Sloane at the helm, more of us would’ve gone. Hell, even my old skipper aboard the  _ Solicitude _ , Captain Canady, had gone out. But fanatical kids, Dark Side cults, and whispers of an alien with a weird name and Force powers leading the show was more than enough to turn a lot of us off.

But in this case, it was how this kid talked down to me, I think. The condescension in his eyes, how he held his head high, his rank that he hadn’t  _ earned _ . He said they’d be happy to honor my commission, bring me in as an instructor with Lieutenant’s rank and pay, and I could avenge my fallen Empire.

It had been tempting, even if the rank offered was an insult, but revenge is one hell of a motivator. I’d asked if I could fly with the kids I’d trained, and the officer had suppressed a laugh, resumed his serious hauteur, and told me with a straight face that I was far, far too old for front-line duty.

I had been fresh off flying combat sorties for the Corporate Sector Authority, and it took everything I had not to slug the arrogant little fuck right in his gut. Instead I told that officer where he and his chrome-plated boss and  _ her  _ ginger weasel boss and  _ his  _ boss with the stupid-ass name could stick their offer.

They left without trying to start anything else, not that anyone would’ve helped if they’d gunned me down on the spot. I hadn’t heard from them since, but I’d put out word to those of us from the Fleet still flying---any gig that might bring me up against these pretenders, I was available.

The Tiss’shar is still looking at me, expecting an answer. I shrug, nonchalantly as I can, but the tension in my arms, my brow, is no doubt pretty damn obvious. “You ain’t wrong.”

“And,” continues the lizard, “we understand you are looking for opportunities to counter them.”

I let out a sigh. The lizard ain’t wrong, and this is the only offer I’ve gotten that is gonna pay enough to get me off Junction. No sense beating around the bush. “I want half my first paycheck up front.”

“We can do you one better,” says the alien, and he slides a high-denomination credchit, big enough to make my brows skyrocket. “Enough to pay off your port administration fees and secure fuel and repairs to ensure your craft is in the best shape possible for its new work.”

I lean forward to pocket the credchit and growl a rejoinder. No way a Tiss’shar gives up money so easy. “What’s the catch?”

“One year initial contract,” says the Tiss’shar, “and you  _ will  _ have pay garnished if you break it. Repairs and fuel will be provided but there will be a monthly limit on credit value you can use.”

That was pretty standard, no catch at all. And honestly, a bit of stability would be nice after spending so long in the void without a proper ship or station to call home.

Yeah, alright. Easy money and a chance to find some pretenders in my TIE’s targetting computers means I can rub elbows with aliens for a bit.

I hold out my hand. “I’m in.”

The Tiss’shar shakes it and I try not to shudder at the feel of the alien’s scales. “Excellent, Mister Halloran. We will see you on Colossus Station.”


	2. Last Battle

Endor should have been the end. 

It  _ was _ , but not for the side that deserved it. Everyone’s got crystal-clear recollections of battles. Not the whole thing, not in detail. You’re too fuckin’ hyped up on adrenaline and the thrill of not getting blown out of space, but you remember bits and pieces. For me, Endor is the smell of sweat inside my bucket, the feel of my TIE’s control yoke as I grip it with white knuckles, engines hot and screaming as I drop in on the tail of three rebel fighters making a run on the  _ Executor _ . The Admiralty thought the threat’d come from the Rebellion’s big ships, and the sky was blacked out with the gray mass of our Destroyers, but we TIE pilots could have our fun too.

Everyone, and I mean  _ everyone _ , that the Fleet or DS2 could spare was scrambled. I was swapping comm chatter with legends that Captain Halloran would never have thought he’d be in the same briefing room with, let alone fly alongside. But on that day the Rebellion should’ve died, my pilots were on the wing of hotshot Rexler Brath and his TIE Defenders, jealous as all hell of their magnificent machines and damned proud our old-school TIE/Ln’s could keep up. We flew escort for some bombers alongside Major Cive Rashon, the Howlrunner herself, and didn’t let a single rebel fighter through. Even the 181st was in the void. I had my ass saved by Baron Soontir goddam Fel himself, who shot an A-Wing off my tail even before my sensors could ping it.

The Empire’s best was in the void that day, in the big ships and little fighters alike. We could have won. By all damn rights we _should_ have.

I knew we were in trouble when the call came over the net---rebel fighters in the superstructure. Bad news, but not unsalvageable. Major Rashon and her Obsidian Squadron were with us when the call came, and she gave me a wag of her wings farewell as they went spiralling off to chase the rebels down. Over the comms I heard Baron Fel, military precision incarnate, coolly order his Rapier Squadron to split off and support them. I radioed back to  _ Solicitude _ , asked the skipper what he needed his CAG to do.

Captain Canady himself called back and his voice was as close to worried as I’d ever heard the old man: rebel fighters en route to  _ Executor _ , take the entirety of our air group and intercept.

_ Executor  _ was the 181st’s home, and it wasn’t long before Baron Fel was pinging me, advising how we best could help out. Now, I’d had an idea or two of my own but little Captain Halloran was hardly about to dictate flight tactics to the best Imperial pilot alive. I acknowledged, split-S with my wingmate following close, and dropped in on the tail of that rebel fighter group.

They’re smart. It’s a two B-wings and an A-Wing flying escort, enough fire power to do some actual damage, enough speed for the escort to give me and my pal hell...if they’d seen us coming.

We went for the A-wing first, coming in high out of the sky at an angle that the rebel pilot couldn’t see us out of that bubble cockpit. You gotta respect A-wing jockeys, those things are just tissue paper holding together a pair of laser cannons and some massively overpowered engines. But they ain’t durable, at all, and that one just shredded under my cannons. My wingmate was already going for the B-Wings, forcing them to break off their attack run.

Two things happened right after those guys broke off: there was an explosion from just above  _ Executor _ ’s bridge, and Baron Soontir Fel lost his composure over the comms for what was probably the first time ever.  _ Executor _ ’s bridge shields were down.

Some of the other guys who survived the furball in the void that day later came down on me and my guys for not stopping what happened next, but suicidal A-wing jocks were  _ not _ standard rebel procedure, for one. For another, if you’ve ever tried to shoot down an A-wing on straight-line flight going balls-to-the-fuckin-wall with its engines, you’ll know just how much a losing proposition that idea is.

And of course, if you know your history, you know what happened where that A-wing was flying.

I don’t remember the rest of Endor. Even when I have too many shots of  Whyren’s and I go back to my cockpit on that day, I’m either shredding that A-Wing, on the wing of one of the Navy’s best, or dropping out of  _ Solicitude _ ’s hangar, looking out at the mass of gray in orbit over Endor, ready to end that damned civil war once and for all.

I don’t talk about Endor much, either. Whenever people hear you were there and want to talk about it, they’re always going in assuming your flightsuit wasn’t black. Whenever other people were there and they find out you were on the other side, they rub it in your face or just walk away.

And those of us who  _ were  _ there flying in the void for the finest Navy in the galaxy? Every year I send a message over the holonet to my pilots from the  _ Solicitude _ , toast ‘em with some good Whyren’s and finish the bottle after I send it off. I used to send it to the old man, but Captain Canady’s found some new friends. Used to toast the legends too, but Baron Fel’s disappeared for parts unknown, Rexler Brath went down over Jakku, and Cive Rashon and I don’t chat these days. Bad breakups’ll do that to you.

Every year there’s less and less messages to send out. Less and less who remember the same battle I flew in, one hell of a last stand rather than a glorious triumph.

Doubt there’ll be many of them on Colossus Station. But it’s as good a place as any to remember the old days while I while away those I got left.


End file.
